


All the Sorrows

by orphan_account



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst: if this really needs to be here, Author hopped on the crazy carriage and rode it into the sunset, Blasphemous Canon Divergence, Fingon arrives inaccurately early by himself, Gore, Hair Pulling, If you wanted to burn me at the stake after reading this I would probably go willingly, M/M, Pantsing, Rated E For: Violence, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, This is Horrid and Sad, Unintentional Caniballism, What the fuck is this anymore, Who says only redheads are bananas?, Yes I said that, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21660634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In which Maedhros is captured.Plot Twist: Fingon is dragged along for the ride.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	All the Sorrows

**Author's Note:**

> **PLEASE HEED THIS WARNING:** This is fucked up beyond belief and beyond unfunny. There are some humorous elements but they are _far_ outweighed by horror and gore. I wrote this from the darkest place I've ever been in my entire life. The tags are deceiving, but I plugged them before I realized how goddamn out there this fic would get. Read with caution and possibly an emesis basin...you've been warned, but I'm not entirely sure it's enough; that is saying _a lot_.

“How did you talk me into this Maitimo?”

Maedhros wants to tell Fingon not to call him that but he is gagged and chained to a wall. How _Findekáno_ is not gagged or chained is a mystery to him, because surely he is just as much of a threat...surely the Adversary can’t possibly think that his cousin is an iota less lethal than he is.

It’s all a little bit backward.

 _Backward_ because he does not know who in their right mind would allow two potentially powerful allies share a cell together. Then again, the vicious, diabolical and rather ridiculously suave right hand of their sworn enemy is not exactly the epitome of perfectly sane, but neither is he perfectly stupid. Surely this is some plot in which to lure them into a false sense of relaxation so that they can be broken later on.

 _”Maitimo!_ ” Maedhros tries to respond but it ends up coming out as nothing comprehensible and inundated with drool so he does not attempt it again. _”Yétamen_.” It is a harder task than it seems, considering the concussion he is fairly sure he has...but he manages it. Fingon looks amused; if it is possible to look amused with a split lip, a bruised right cheek and a fractured ethmoid. “It is good to see you, cousin.”

He wants to ask Fingon what in the blazing forges of the giant fortress they are currently trapped in he is _doing_ here. And since he _is_ here, why on Arda was no aid sent before this? Time has taught Maedhros to be suspicious...and so he is very suspicious.

Fingon is supposed to be travelling across the Helcaraxë; a long and perilous journey that, so he estimates, would not have been completed yet...if it was attempted at all. Maedhros does not remember his cousin and closest friend being among the embassy that had sought to treat with Morgoth; nor does he remember ever catching a glimpse of him in Mithrim...and he is sure that he would have noticed him even if he had tried to hide.

...Fingon has ‘oft been on his mind..so of course he would have.

Maedhros wants to apologize to Fingon for leaving him behind; he wants to tell him that he did not want to burn the ships...but of course he cannot. And there is no guarantee that this is not some trick of the enemy. He does not, again, remember seeing the dark-haired Noldor before they were both dragged through Angband’s gates. And so he merely glares at he who might be his kin and he who might not be; this earns him a very loud sigh.

“I am not angry with you.”

_’You should be.’_

The thought is loud in the redhead’s mind; louder than the thundering of his suddenly very anxious heart. Because Findekáno has every right to be angry with him...for they are kin, however distantly; and he did not defy his father when the swan ships were set ablaze...not as much as he could have. He could have fought harder to prevent it...but he’d not the strength for it...nor the will. The Oath was a roaring river in his mind...and so it pulled him to _Dagor-nuin-Giliath_ , and to the eventual death of his father.

Fingon’s eyes are beautifully gray.

They have always been beautifully gray...but not seeing them in a while has made them nearly silver. There are darker motes there...in the composition of his irises; dove-colored pales and deep...stormy shales. He is pale...paler than him and willowy in figure...though not in a manner that is feminine; more flexible yet inexorably strong. Fingolfin’s eldest son is sharp-featured...dark-haired and more darkly browed...but his face is familiar...and even if Maedhros wishes him elsewhere...he is glad to see him.

He also wants to strangle him.

For if Fingon is here then surely none will rally to rescue them. The redhead had been counting on his cousin to gather their people...if not for recovery, then for victory. Fëanor was headstrong, willful, and arrogant...and his brothers are equally as stubborn. Fingolfin will come with a host of Noldor harboring a great grudge against their slain King...and Maehdros is not entirely sure such a rift can be mended without his counsel...what little he possesses. He had held out hope that he and Fingon could find some middle ground with one another...but now he is unsure of the future.

“What a lovely family reunion.”

Sauron is red-haired, like him.

When he first looked upon Morgoth’s Lieutenant, Maedhros had been struck with the wild urge to cut all of his off or dye it with walnuts...for the correlation was too insulting. Now, however, he forces himself to acknowledge that this is but one of the Ainur’s _hröar._ It is a made form...and does not represent the true nature of his _fëa._ Looking a bit longer, he is forced to admit that it is fiery...like the spirit itself...but he has heard mention of Mairon...of a creature brighter than forge flame and a thousand times hotter. Now...his eyes burn with a distant echo of that light...but it is a thing dimmed by the body he has housed himself in for the moment.

“You copied our ears.”

Maedhros wants to tell Findekáno to shut up, but again, he cannot. As it is, he can only widen his eyes at his somewhat-cousin as he glares obstinantly at Gorthaur, who is trying to look entertained but also looks annoyed. Fingon is very good at being annoying if he wants to be, but unfortunately this is not a situation in which one sensibly wishes to be annoying.

“It is not of course a reunion if one of you cannot talk” is the smooth continuation, the comment ignored.

“Fraud” Fingon mutters.

Maedhros tries to kick him.

If Fingolfin’s son is killed under his watch, there will be no hope of reconciliation. Sauron is looking truly amused now, however...and the reality of it is neither comforting nor in any way inspiring. Angband is crawling with orcs; Balrogs and corrupt, insane Vala aside. From what little he has seen of it prior to his capture, he knows it is nigh impenetrable let alone escapable. No, they could be looking at a very long, very painful imprisonment...and they must be clever about it. He supposes the only thing keeping them alive this long is the fact that he is a King, and Fingon is the son of a prominent societal figurehead.

“You are the spawn of Fingolfin.” This is said and not asked of Maedhros’ cousin, who is looking more recalcitrant by the minute. “By my knowledge, your sire and company have not yet finished their crossing of the Helcaraxë.” When Fingon says nothing, the Maia smiles in a manner that reminds Maedhros of a gaping wound and leans forward ‘till his locks are tumbled over his shoulders like a river of fire. “How come you here, son of mine enemy?”

For a moment, it seems as if Fingon will not speak. Instead he makes a long and disdainful study of his adversary’s visage before looking to the opposite wall...his expression unreadable.

“I fashioned a sled to which I could attach a hardy horse and made haste across the ice.”

The blow is swift.

It is also pointed...directed to cause pain and the sound of it resonates against the walls. The cloth-muffled cry that forces itself out of Maedhros’ throat is the only one in the room; his kin makes no sound as his head snaps back...as the bridge of his nose is fully shattered and rubicund sluices over his lips. Faster than he can blink, Sauron has righted himself and looks distinctly bored. It takes Findekáno a moment to recover, but when he does he keeps right at it and now Maedhros is terrified for him.

“I’m telling the truth” he says disgustedly, swiping at his nose before giving it up and letting the blood run freely. “I felt there was great need to arrive here swiftly, and my father bade me figure out a manner of doing it, if I must, and so I did.” Grey eyes alight upon Maedhros and they are filled with apology. “If I’d known the situation was so dire, I’d have made more for our kin. And the only reason I’m so very late is because the ice kept cracking in places and I had to go ‘round for some miles.”

“You are telling me” Sauron snarls. “That you fashioned a manner of… _sled_ and… _skated_ to Middle Earth?”

“I wish it was more dramatic than that” Fingon answers, looking a bit downtrodden. “But aye, I am.”

“You will relay this tale to my Lord” is the snapped return. “Both of you will come with me, and if he finds you lacking in your verity, I will see you thrown into the pits.” This is said to Fingon before Morgoth’s right hand rounds on Maedhros, who attempts to look innocent.

 _”You_ can watch.”

* * *

**“He tells the truth.”**

Morgoth’s voice is more deafening than the loudest of thunderstorms.

Maedhros cannot cover his ears-due to his arms still being chained-and so he can do very little but flinch away from it. The throne room is massive; swathed in the great darkness that is the Adversary save for the bright...winking trifold brilliance that is the Silmarils. Fingon stands beside him still unchained, but he has been considering Sauron’s back as if he’s parsing his goods and it’s making the redhead-the elvish redhead-rather annoyed. He knows he’s been a right sot; but Findekáno can surely find a better replacement for him than what amounts to a _Balrog_ in velvet, leather, and a rather clever magical costume. Sauron’s chin tilts towards Maedhros as the indignant thought crosses his mind, and he is fixed with a fiery, slit pupil eye that winks once.

Not with the lid though; ...some sort of snake-esque brille.

Maedhros shudders.

“What would you have me do with them...my Lord?”

Gorthaur's voice is not without authority as he speaks to his overlord. There is something else there as well, but it is impossible to say exactly what. Morgoth is not so much a shape as he is a presence; but his gaze burns into them all the same...like a sulphuric yet somehow scentless maelstrom. Fëanor's son can _feel_ the Dark Vala's gaze without seeing it; every time it passes over him it's a static, iron bar-esque crush...like being dragged under the heavy deluge of a massive waterfall and pummeled into the trough.

He knows that Morgoth's form-at this point-is corporeal, but wherever it is...it is hidden in the shadow of his power. The Lord of Darkness is slow to contemplate and slower to respond; by the time he comes to a decision Maedhros feels like his arms are going numb.

 **"The son of Fëanor has valuable information regarding the Enemy"** Morgoth's voice is a grating cacophony, but bearable. It becomes nearly unbearable when he fixes the entirety of his focus on Maedhros and speaks directly to him. **"Furthermore, we may be able to barter your life for that which is valuable to Our cause."**

 _"I won't tell him a thing"_ the redheaded Noldor thinks fiercely. _"I'd rather die."_

"You might find death a kindness" Sauron purrs. "Once I am finished with you." Maedhros throws him a look that clearly tells the scarlet-haired overlord to get out of his brain. “I’m not reading your mind” the Maia continues, looking amused. “Your stubbornness is writ all over that pretty face of yours.”

 **”You are both descendents of Finwë”** is the rumbled continuation about them in the hall...and this time it is tinged with a kind of dark relish. **”Whom I slew...and thusly have vast information regarding your houses and kinfolk.”**

“Fingolfin’s people march across the Helcaraxë” Sauron supplies eagerly. “We could gain much by-”

“-You did not slay my grandfather alone.”

Again, Maedhros wonders if Fingon is perhaps suicidal. His voice rings out clear and cold among the shimmering marble of the Great Hall...and it is met with silence. The son of Fingolfin is not cowed beneath the gaze of Morgoth or his Lieutenant, however, and continues.

“You were not alone” he presses. “You needed a great, ugly spider to help you.”

“I would be careful how you parse your words” Sauron spits...and this time there is heat behind it...a kind of terrible, dark and seething pride. “I would see you whipped for that...tear you apart...we need only one of you after all-”

**”-Enough.”**

To his credit, Gorthaur knows an order when he hears one. It does not, however, keep him from hissing a nameless curse in the direction of Maedhros’ cousin, who again does not flinch. Morgoth feels amused...and it is in that amusement that the son of Fëanor find far more terror than he does in his wrath.

 **”Strength will bode ill for you here”** the subject of his terror continues in those rolling, grating tones. **”However, I shall look forward to when you break.”** The subsequent comment is directed at Sauron. **”I _expect_ you to break.”**

It will take a lot to break Fingon Maedhros thinks, even as an ugly, sniveling orc comes to take up his chains and drag him away.

He is not sure if he can say the same for himself.

* * *

“What _possessed_ you to follow me?!”

They’ve removed his gag and chains.

Maedhros is sure this is not a kindness...but he is glad for it because he can rail at Fingon. His half-cousin watches him pace the minimal space in their cell through the dark fall of his hair; dishevelled but somehow fierce. They were left here subsequently, after their meeting with Morgoth...and no news or action had come since.

“You made a speech” Fingon says idly, looking at his nails. “Prior to departing with your embassy. I’d only just come when you were about to depart. You inspired me, so I knocked out one of your guards and wore his livery.” A grimace. “Pity I was recognized.”

“Pity _not_ ” Maedhros snarls. “For if you were not, you would have been slaughtered like a pig. And how are we supposed to get out now?!”

Findekáno looks confused.

“Gracious” he mutters. “Did you put that much faith in me in regards to rescuing you? I am very sorry cousin, but I was in a hurry.” When he does not respond, his cousin gentles his tone. “I am sorry about Fëanor, I was grieved to hear of his passing.”

"I wouldn't bear grudge against you if you weren't" Maedhros remarks...even as the Oath throbs within him...painful yet unbreakable.

"We need each other...our kin need each other more than ever" is the sage reply. "Even if they cannot see it."

"Then why did you come?!" he is angry now, truly angry, but under that anger is despair...despair that he has, like his sire, led his loved ones to ruin...but despair especially for the one before him... because he is more than this.

"Because _I_ need you" is the quiet retort. A bare foot shoots out to catch him...and Maedhros nearly trips over it before he is able to-barely-right himself by leaning sideways and letting his shoulder slam against the unforgiving stone of the dungeon wall.

It stings...but not so much as his pride.

"You do not" the redhead says raggedly, remaining there above Fingon...his eyes closed and his body shuddering. _"You do not._ The Oath-"

"-Is poison" Findekáno interrupts...and he wants to argue, but he cannot. "'Tis poison, cousin...but I understand why you made it...and why it drives you. But you are a King...and a King cannot abandon his people, a King cannot surrender because all hope is lost, and a King cannot give himself to the machinations of the Enemy because it is easy." A hand grasps his thigh and Maedhros forces himself to look down...into those startlingly gray eyes. "You are my King, so I followed you, and I would follow you again...a hundred times I would follow you, not for your wisdom but because I must. Because I love you Nelyafinwë, I have always loved you...and even if you do not believe it...I think you are the only hope we have of uniting our people."

His legs give out then...though not entirely of his own free will. Maedhros slumps to the ground and lands with both knees on either side of Fingon's hips...facing him to the fore. He cannot look, but he is made to look when a slender-fingered but terribly strong hand forces his chin up.

"Kiss me" Findekáno says, though it is not a command. "Kiss me, for it has been long since you last did, and I have not come all this way merely for the sake of honor and loyalty."

Against his will, the redhead feels himself smile. It is both bitter and amused.

"So your reasons aren't entirely innocent" he muses against the soft part of a familiar mouth.

"I have not been innocent since you took me beneath Telperion and pledged your spirit to mine" is the dry response. "And I believe I should kill you if you go back on those words now. So kiss me, Maitimo. For if you owe me any small fealty, it is this...and then we will worry about getting out of here."

He does.

* * *

Watching each other suffer.

That is Sauron’s reason for placing them together; so they can see the extent of the damage done to one another. Maedhros thinks this would be an immediately effective manner of breaking them if they didn’t constantly brawl with one another as youths, and fight beside each other on the battlefield. He knows how much Fingon can take, and Fingon knows the same of him. So when the redhead is tossed back into the cell after spending the night getting screws shoved under his nails; Findekáno asks him if that’s really all he can take.

Likewise, when his cousin is dragged back to their dirty, strangely temperate hollow, he appears to possess one less ear than he used to. Inside...Maedhros winces...but when he opens his mouth he instead asks Fingon why he didn’t have the bollocks to let them take the other one. It grows back, of course, but it takes time. This goes on for a while...until they are hungry and thirsty and their meager fare doesn’t allow them to replenish the energy needed for hours of torment.

Maedhros is weak but Fingon is weaker; he does not heal as quickly and he moves gingerly now wheres’t he didn’t before. Sometimes Sauron oversees their torment; it’s always on days-he tells themselves they are days, he cannot actually tell-when one or both of them is ground to the bone with pain and exhaustion. Morgoth's Lieutenant will stand in a corner-often out of sight-and throw questions at them when the torment is greatest.

They are mundane questions.

The sort you would expect, anyway, and prevalent to the situation. Gorthaur asks them of battle plans, of tactics, he sets query to estimations of their numbers and their combative prowess. From that he moves to subtle taunts; of their kin that he or his Master have killed in the past...of whether or not they think they will be rescued...of the fact that they likely won't be. Sauron is surgical in his methods, and Maedhros supposes he's had plenty of time to hone his skills over the millennium.

They don't speak of anything incriminating out of silent agreement, even when alone. Both of them are aware that the walls are listening, and so they ultimately say very little. Still...when Fingon comes staggering back from yet another session bone white and bleeding profusely from the lashes across his back... Maedhros knows he cannot bide quietly anymore.

Sauron is with him...and while he does not seem triumphant...he seems expectant...as if he knows he has pushed his cousin to the very extent of his limits and intends to savor the precipice for a while before pushing him off it. Maedhros knows this too...but he has no weapon and no means of bargaining, so he does the only thing he can think of.

He yanks down Sauron's trews.

It's a petty thing... certainly childish but completely desperate and utterly without any intent but to draw attention to himself. There are leggings under the trews, a fact that he is slightly disappointed with, but he has managed to divest Gorthaur, the horror of Middle Earth, second only to his Master, almost entirely of his pants in front of about thirty sneering orcs and one Balrog.

Well...they were previously sneering.

Now, however, they are frozen in insidious, terrible fear. Fingon too has frozen; but he seems to be mentally careening between dumbfounded horror and screaming hysteria. In agonizing pain, with a guard large enough that fighting back would be asinine, the son of Fingolfin succumbs to howls of laughter.

He does this sooner than anyone else can react, and Maedhros cannot help but join him...because they are trapped, they are hurting...and if it’s the last thing they do, then it is something done well. It’s not as satisfying as running an enemy through with a sword, but they have none, and so they must settle with this one...petty slight amongst many, _many_ tortures.

Sauron walks out.

Well...somewhat; Morgoth’s lieutenant bends over to pick up his trews...his expression unreadable, and then walks out without another word. For several long, _long_ minutes, both of the Noldor are certain he intends to return...surely with horrors unimaginable. He does not return...however.

He doesn’t, and unlike times before...the torture ceases. It ceases...the torches are extinguished...and they are left in the dark with each other for what feels like an eternity. Maedhros knows that this bodes ill...that no good can come of it...but he seizes the reprieve regardless and Fingon does the same. They are not fed, however, and the only water they receive is from a lone orc who shoves it under the bars to their cell once a day and leaves them without a word.

They are soon starving.

Really, by the time anything changes, they are nearly delirious with hunger. Talking only gets them so far...they’d discovered this long ago, however...and know to reserve their strength and only communicate in moments of great urgency or importance. Maedhros finds his thoughts turning more and more to the land they had left behind...across the sea. He wonders what those who remained behind have done without the Trees...if they are prospering. Fingon whispers occasionally of the carnage in Alqualondë...but he has no answers for him; he does not think he has the answer to anything anymore.

* * *

They are invited to dinner.

Specifically, Sauron arrives unexpectedly just when Maedhros feels as if his stomach has started to eat itself, and invites them to dinner. They are allowed to bathe and dress themselves, and though the items with which they wash are nondescript and the clothes plain...they are better than nothing. It’s impossible to tell how long they have been held at this point; but Maedhros knows it has been quite long...possibly a year or many years. The garments they had arrived in-aketons and quilted leggings-are tatters.

No good can come of this.

He knows this...but he acquiesces because he has sworn himself to live...and Fingon acquiesces because he loves Maedhros. Not for the first time, he wonders if it is worth keeping such a title if it means he only drags those that he cherishes down into the dust with him. They are bathed and clothed and led into a lavish dining room that is empty save for the Lieutenant himself and a few posted guards.

Angband is massive.

Massive...and seemingly without end. Many times they have tried to run...never getting far post sessions of questioning laced with precise pain. The walls around them are impenetrable...the spires endless. Once...Fingon managed to get quite far but came back covered in soot and pale as a spirit. He’d come to the forges, he’d said; Morgoth’s forges.

He will not speak of it.

The food is atrociously good.

It is, in fact, suspiciously good but they are so hungry and so sick of water they eat until they can't anymore. Maedhros ignores the noble-born elf in him that insists he thank his host for the food. Sauron looks like a cat that just ate a canary but it's hard to care with a full belly and good wine.

“What is this?"

Maedhros thinks they might regret Fingon's question because Gorthaur's smile becomes absolutely vicious but it's too late for that, he has asked. To ameliorate the possible horror of the response, Fëanor's son drinks more wine and hopes it is enough.

"That's your cousin’s lieutenant, son of Fingolfin. I'd be sorry that it took so long to procure such a dish, but it's taken us a while to capture him."

It is not enough.

Fingon goes white before he is spectacularly sick over the arm of a chair. Maedhros feels as if he could have joined him if he wasn’t so drunk and overly full. The pall of horror over him is dulled by consumption. Findekáno heaves again and he wishes he wouldn’t...he wishes he’d stop, because it’s atrocious and wrong and the wine has made it red but the carpet is red so it doesn’t matter.

“Whatever is the matter?” Sauron is purring, watching Maedhros’ cousin with a kind of dark relish. “Don’t you feel akin to it...Findekáno?” The look Fingon shoots Morgoth’s Lieutenant is wild with rage and despair; wide-eyed and glassy and sick with self-loathing. “What do you think your kin will do crossing the Helcaraxë when their food is drowned and their people are starving hmm? Don’t you feel _closer_ to it all?”

Fingon moves faster than Maedhros can move to prevent it.

He’s sloshed and probably cursed so of course he can’t move to prevent it but he wishes he could have all the same. Because Findekáno shoots out of his chair and lunges across the table towards Sauron. Several orcs move to intercept him...but while the creatures wrought in the pits of the world are swift...the Noldor are swifter. And so it is that no one, not even Gorthaur himself has time enough to react before the son of Fingolfin has traversed the wooden, lavish space between himself and an eldritch horror, grabbed a wealth of the yellow-scarlet hair in his fist and slammed the head attached to it into the plate below.

There is a roar.

Something of the sort...Maedhros is too far gone and too deep into the corruption of it all to care. It is a sound his ears can’t process...can’t really compare to anything that would make it realistic. It is reminiscent of ripping flesh and the roll of an avalanche and Fingon is _screaming_. It’s not only pain in his voice...however, it is rage and despair and hope mixed into a single, swirling vocalization. He doesn’t particularly see what happens, doesn’t have the withwheral to process it.

It is only a few moments afterwards that he realizes that his cousin and one of his greatest enemies are brawling on the floor like children.

Sauron is changed, but doesn’t seem to have made it fully through the transformation before Findekáno rallied somehow and brought him down from his chair to the carpeted flooring. The dark Maia is glowing in places...larger than before and possibly twice as terrifying.

The son of Feanor thinks that perhaps he ought to be helping, and so he manages to stagger out of his chair, traverse the circumference of the table, and starts yanking on a booted foot; he’s not sober enough to do much more than that, and it gets him a square kick in the face.

The orcs seem to be at a loss.

As a hand with burning, inorexible strength moves to crush his windpipe, Maedhros understands...a little bit. Sauron is their Lord and Master, and thusly theirs to protect and obey...but he is not without some semblance of honor. To interfere might be to insult that honor...and they do not know what the correct course of action might be.

Fingon is bleeding profusely from a horrid wound on his arm...but he’s managed to do something that-apparently-keeps Morgoth’s Lieutenant from changing into something more formidable...and it is not an advantage that Maedhros intends to ignore.

...Speaking of Morgoth.

The dishes atop the table have started to rattle, but no one takes particular note of it. Maedhros has managed to block the blow that would have crushed his trachea, but Sauron has a lock on his hair that is nigh impossible to break and he can feel his scalp starting to pull away. This itself is nothing...but he is quite fond of his hair, actually, and he’d really rather prefer to keep it. Everyone is shouting or screeching or-in the orcs’ case-grunting hysterical questions that apparently have received no answer. The decanter of wine that he now sincerely regrets partaking in wobbles precariously before smashing to the flagstones with a crash.

The massive doors to the ornate dining room are flung from their hinges.

He wouldn’t have needed that to notice Morgoth’s presence, however, because the minute he enters the room Maedhros feels as if he is suffocating. For once-in a very, _very_ long time-he is implementing some type of power and it has turned his bones to water. Fingon makes a weak...high sound before slumping to the floor in a heap of blood and limbs.

**_”Mairon!”_ **

It is not fear or worry in the Dark Vala’s voice, however, and that is somewhat disappointing. It is, however, a dark roiling rage that seeps into every corner of his psyche and chokes him into oblivion. Maedhros feels his eyes roll back into his head as whatever power the adversary has chosen to implement takes full effect; his body feels beyond his command and he is shaking uncontrollably, as if consumed by endless winter.

Mairon-as he has so been dubbed-is fairly spitting.

The Oath is rattling him to his core…but he cannot move to do anything about it.

**”Explain yourself.”**

Never before has he heard something so close to affection coming from a creature so steeped in evil. It makes something in Maedhros seize, makes it shake apart and burst into a thousand, glowing pieces that burn like fire. Because it is _wrong_ and it shouldn’t be.

“My Lord Melkor.”

So that is what they call each other.

Maedhros coughs and blood rolls over his lips to drool onto the scarlet carpeting. Fingon’s hand is inching through it...dragging through the stitching to grasp desperately for him. He reciprocates weakly...touches the tips of their fingers together ‘till they can thread them betwixt…’till the warmth of flesh is a thing understood but not communicated. Cloth rustles and Sauron has risen...albeit slowly. There are rips in his garb that he can see even from his position on the floor...and he feels a fierce rush of pride intermingled with despair.

“My Lord, you bid me extract information from them.”

 **”And this is how you do it?”** is the slow but still subtly gentle response. **”I thought I taught you better than this...my Shining One.”** Gorthaur is gone now...out of his field of vision...but he can still feel him in the room...can feel both of them. **”They insulted you”** is the keen deduction. **”Debased you...and so you felt it necessary to extract penance.”** ‘Mairon’ makes as if to deny it, but he is quickly overridden. **”Think you that you are the only one to listen to the whispers of Our subjects? Think you that I do not know what has commenced prior to now...O’ Favored Mine?”**

“It is not _them_ ” Sauron hisses. “Fuck them! They’re _nothing_ , it’s those jewels atop your head! They _poison_ you, cloud your mind and you do nothing, you sit and you look at yourself and I, I must pick up the pieces of that which we wrought as On-!”

There is another sound...another punishing sound, but Sauron does not cry out. Fingon is looking at him...he is looking at him...bruised and battered...broken. His breathing is labored...his form broken...but he is still looking at him with those brilliant, gray eyes and those eyes are filled with tears. And Maedhros wants to laugh; he wants to laugh and he wants to weep because _of course_ what sickened his father and grandfather is sickening Morgoth...sickening him...sickening his people.

 **”You know better than this.”**.

It is a revelation of cataclysmic proportions.

If they were elsewhere, it would have been something to celebrate. Now...however...now it is nothing but bitter irony. Findekáno’s grip on his hand is tremulous...loosening more by the minute even as his thumb strokes over Maedhros’ knuckles.

“You used to know better” there is more rustling of cloth...the sound of fabric hitting the floor and suddenly there is a wash of brilliance...a sense of glittering, ethereal revealment...and for a long moment there is silence. When Sauron speaks again, his voice is choked. “My Lord, won’t you see again? Won’t you look to Our vision again?” Movement now...flesh against flesh and Maedhros squeezes his eyes shut and tells himself he is _not_ akin to this. “I would follow you” is the ragged continuation. “I would follow you to the End of all Ends...to the Void and beyond...but not like this, my Lord, _please_ not like-”

**”-Enough.”**

There is a devolution...a sense of spiral and wet and _rough_ and Sauron makes a sound that is wholly desperate, wholly honest, and wholly _true_. It is carnality wrought in a single exclamation...in a single vocalization as the world burns...as the mountains are turned perhaps to dust...if only in Maedhros’ mind. It is reminiscent of a terrible loyalty...of fealty...of honor and undoing…

...of love.

Fingon is still and unbreathing.

He is still and his lashes are onyx curls behind which those eyes will never look to him again. His hair is a dark spill over his shoulders...swept around his cheek and hovering over a jawline that the redhead has kissed more times than he can count. Findekáno’s mouth is pressed to his palm...straight in the middle...where fate and life line meet...like a prayer. He is soft and strong and beautiful, and he is _gone_.

Maedhros feels his fëa splinter.

It leaves him in a howl that is terrible in its force; he is jerked to the Heavens even as his body remains on the floor...as his spirit seeks the dwindling, retreating brilliance that is Fingon’s soul. But he cannot follow...he cannot follow for he has sworn himself to madness...to despair and ruin and it is all so _clear_ now, but he can do naught about it. The Oath anchors him to this because he is dead...he is dead but he is not dead _enough_.

And he understands.

Maedhros understands that he and Fingon were merely collateral damage to the pain Sauron is feeling whilst he who he loves dwindles into madness. He knows that sorrow...he has seen it in those he has loved. He does not forgive...but he understands. For all this pain...all this sorrow...all of the sorrows upon sorrows could have been prevented. It could have been prevented the minute the Silmarils were created...but it was not...and then it was not again...and again.

When Maedhros is rescued...rescued by a small and straggling group of desperate remnants...he renounces his Kingship. He renounces his title...his name...and his house. The Oath is lesser then...though it remains...until death. The son of Fëanor turns from his purpose and disappears into the West...and none know what becomes of him. But in death...in death he turns his eyes to the Halls and does not reject them...and he hopes that the world is renewed...he hopes that he can have peace...that Findekáno will greet him…

...He hopes it is enough.

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N:** Probably some misspellings of Maedhros and maybe some chronological errors (not deliberate chronological errors) due to this being a bit like getting repeatedly pummeled. I am going to...apologize...for this because I know its not accurate and possibly out of character, but I've been in a horrible mood lately...so creativity from my horrible mood x_X 
> 
> **R &R** (or possibly just throw tomatoes) Dx


End file.
